


an act of charity

by thimble



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 22:14:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/565849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thimble/pseuds/thimble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Bond's wrists bear bruises under his sleeves reminiscent of capture while Q rests all his weight on one foot and can't quite walk straight for three days, that's all just bloody collateral. [or The 7 Deadly Sins, redux]</p>
            </blockquote>





	an act of charity

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Fresh Blood' by Eels.

i. luxuria 

It's electric between them - that's the only way Q can describe it. Like two of his own machines, finely tuned and deadly, they're synchronised outlaws whose singular mark in history will be a page dipped in molten lava red. If they were to set the world aflame, Bond will use a lighter and trucks of gasoline; not to be outdone, Q will simply activate a series of codes to make every single petroleum plant he gains access to explode. 

He can type faster than Bond can fire bullets, after all.

He supposes that's why they get along. Anyone who can't keep up with Bond is left behind, whether he means to or not. It must've been quite a while too, because the air won't stop crackling when they're in the same room. Dangerous, that, being near so many plugs and wires. There's so much power in an underground chamber, in a heavily guarded secret. Bond's eyes turn to steel, and Q's certain he looks half-crazed when he's engrossed. 

When their stares meet, the fallout is unforgiving.

 

 

ii. gula 

Neither of them know much about quitting. Bond has had (several) chances to make a clean break, the lucky fly who's wriggled out of the MI6 web, and Q counts sheep in binary. Ones and Zeroes chase after him in his sleep, which isn't unlike waking life really. A little overdone, but he was a nervous twig of a child who had nothing but numbers to talk to and with.

He makes up for it now, the way he barks orders and curses at Bond to go _harder_ even when it hurts more than it thrills. Bond, to his credit, slows down and pulls back, with that bastard grin that says _I'm better than you_ , allowing Q to scowl instead of moan.

He'll remember to thank Bond later for that.

When they finish they take a minute to recharge, two if it's been especially ruthless, and this time they're quicker to collide with no clothes in the way. If Bond's wrists bear bruises under his sleeves reminiscent of capture while Q rests all his weight on one foot and can't quite walk straight for three days, that's all just bloody collateral.

 

 

iii. avaritia 

Q likes the kill more than he'd ever care to admit. He knows he's all big green eyes and perpetually parted mouth; a cherubic schoolboy face and dark floppy hair to render him virtually unassuming. It's an advantage more often than not - if people undermine his competence they can at least count on his moral compass.

Chances of that happening were already slim before Bond asked him to go vigilante even after what was probably the biggest cock-up in Q branch history, but it certainly didn't help matters. 

The whole damn planet should consider itself lucky that he wasn't _completely_ lawless, was always this way the moment he learned how to hack library computers so he wouldn't have to return his favourite books. He was stealing, perhaps, but it was undoubtably preferable to his current occupation.

Bond comes back and the gun Q designed for him has ended more nameless lives than a goddamn shark would in its lifetime; he colours Q's lips with blood so that they'd match.

 

 

iv. socordia 

What they have doesn't need nurturing. It's not a _plant_ , or if it was it would be a Venus Flytrap. It's always hungry but it takes its time to savour a meal. Maybe it's a bit beautiful too, but maybe he shouldn't really use that word for a festering carnivorous shrub.

But that's what they are, ugly and honest and terrifyingly independent. They go weeks without speaking about anything but the mission, and they retire to their own beds on either side of the Atlantic. They go months without seeing each other (or at least Bond does, Q sees him through satellite feeds and CCTV cameras, never less than worse for wear). 

Distance is the last thing that should bother anyone about their arrangement. 

They might start worrying when their reunions stop resembling hurricanes. Keyword: might, and it doesn't seem to be in the near future. Until then they'll prosper and murder to their heart's content, and if they ever feel alone they'll see to it themselves, closed eyes, rough strokes, and the texture of someone else's palm.

 

 

v. ira

Bond has a death wish or two and it's not classified information - it even says so on his file in more clinical terms, which makes it even worse somehow, but Q would prefer a perfect track record in his stint as Quartermaster and that requires a certain Double O to stay the fuck alive.

At least while he's in charge.

His revenge take the form of silence. A thick, impenetrable brand of quiet that can't be budged no matter how much Bond growled, or manhandled, or whatever else that anyone but Q won't see as empty threats. It drives him absolutely mad, knows full well that it's a trap but falls for it anyway, that expression of his that takes over not only his features but the rest of his body too, that _Something's gone very wrong and I'll mend it or die trying_ face that makes Q smile, and smile, and smile, until

"Forgive me," he says, not in his own words but in the sweet melody of someone else's dying screams.

 

 

vi. invidia 

Q has many subordinates and for some reason that triggers a sort of dominance fantasy in some of them, which is unprofessional in itself (he never said he wasn't a hypocrite) but actually voicing them, low in his ear or with a tight grip on his arm, is the equivalent of career suicide. He never fires them then and there; he waits for them so slip up all on their own, which they inevitably do since they're too distracted by his presence. He demotes them to the bottom of the MI6 food chain, with the pay still hefty enough to make them think twice about leaving but still removed from his line of sight. If there's anything he knows from combined experience with all the department heads, it's to _never_ terminate anyone with a vendetta.

Bond, he imagines, doesn't go through as much trouble to reject the trysts that are offered him. Q listens in sometimes, disturbing as it sounds, and rates the encounter by every noise Bond makes. Every so often he (they) runs into a perfect ten, and the lady or gent would receive a mysterious bouquet of poppies the next morning. If they survive the night.

It's not long before Bond finds out, but he only pulls a grimace, unhappy but not enough to try and stop him. Q supposes he thinks the whole ordeal's unsavoury, but that's all right.

He's quite fond of poppies.

 

 

vii. superbia 

They're not the enemy but they're just one deliberate sidestep, one delicate tilt of ideals away. That very fact makes them valuable, him and Bond, and though they get stiff warnings most are smart enough not to stand in their way. They'll get the job done, which was all anyone ever asked of Double O's and, until recently, Quartermasters.

So their shared energy is still a bomb that won't diffuse, and they keep it like that under harsh lights and scrutiny, though neither of them feel an ounce of shame. It's for everyone else's good, really; a modicum of normalcy that shatters every time Bond is less than fifty yards away. It gets the floor's collective heart racing, pumps adrenaline into their veins when they need a little extra push. Bond's careful about standing _too_ close, of course, they're the department voted most likely to blow itself to smithereens.

The one time Bond does kiss him inside headquarters, it's dark and it's not anyone's show but their own, in a temporary blind spot in security that no one but Q knows about. It's barely a peck, and Bond would make a _terrible_ artist if his brush strokes on paper are as unsure as the brush of his mouth against Q's. 

"Terrible," he lets himself say, and he is, and they are, but it's only a moment, so he allows it, the emotion that makes him shudder and go _I think we used to be gods, you and I._


End file.
